


Don't Come Back

by SnowyWolff



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nationverse, Unrequited Love, more or less
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-22
Updated: 2018-08-22
Packaged: 2019-07-01 04:18:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15766446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SnowyWolff/pseuds/SnowyWolff
Summary: “Why did you come back?” Romano asks, his voice small as Greece steps inside and reaches forward to turn off the stove.“Because I don't actually think you meant what you said,” Greece says, focusing solely on the man in front of him.***Not everything in life is golden.





	Don't Come Back

**Author's Note:**

> My other entry for the OTP event of the HWD!
> 
> Prompts: Gold and “Don't come back for me.”

_“Don't come back for me.”_

They are the words that haunt him. That make him toss and turn in bed. That make him want to forget in absinthe and tsipouro.

Greece feels pathetic. He _is_ pathetic. Hung up on some man that couldn't return his feelings; never would.

But no, not just some man. Romano could never be just some man. He is so much more. It pains Greece to think of how little Romano thinks of himself.

He stares out on the Ionian Sea, watches how the sun colours it a glimmering gold, smokes a rare cigarette because he needs the distraction.

It's melancholic and painful all at once. He misses the brush of skin against his arm whenever Romano was particularly riled up. He misses his laughter and his anger and his voice. He misses the way his eyes glitter as gold as the sea when he's quiet and contemplative.

God, he misses him so much it hurts.

He tosses the cigarette off the cliff, frowns at nothing in particular and stands. Dust floats off his pants as he stalks down to the small dock that anchors one sailboat. It's his, the name _Magna Graecia_ painted on the side as a joke by Romano.

He makes a decision right then and there.

The rope comes loose easily and he throws it aboard before jumping in himself. The boat wobbles, but Greece is used to it. His jaw clenches as he thinks of how Romano could not handle it, how he used to clutch the side of the boat and stare intently at the horizon until Greece found a way to distract him. But he shakes his head, focuses on fixing the sails, tries not to dwell on days spent floating and dreaming and gazing at the stars. Sitting at the back, he steers the boat toward Sicily.

It’s gentle sailing, the heat of the day mostly taken away by Helios as he flies his chariot toward the horizon. It’s a childish comfort to be thinking of the gods of old, but they are a distraction from the train wreck he is going to invest himself into.

Romano’s mansion on the cliff side is one he does not use often, mainly because it has a bit too much grandeur for his taste. But he has had it for centuries and it’s where he flees to when there is too much going on. It has a little dock too, devoid of boats, but built for Greece because it’s quicker and cheaper for him to sail over.

He walks up the narrow dirt path, pausing a moment to take a deep breath before he heads for the patio. The glass door that leads to the kitchen is open and Greece can smell the cooking that Romano loves to do so much. He almost feels bad for intruding because it smells like seafood, Romano’s comfort food. But he has made a decision; it’s too late to turn back now.

Finding Romano leaning over the stove, he knocks on the door to make his presence known. The spoon clatters to the floor, Romano spinning toward him with such panic that he almost burns himself on the stove as he does.

“Romano,” Greece greets, inclining his head.

“Why did you come back?” Romano asks, his voice small as Greece steps inside and reaches forward to turn off the stove.

“Because I don't actually think you meant what you said,” Greece says, focusing solely on the man in front of him.

Romano shrinks at the attention, walks back when Greece advances, breath hitching as his back hits a wall and Greece makes escape too obvious.

“I did,” he says—breathes, “mean what I said.”

Greece doesn’t reply, but also stops moving toward Romano. Nothing good would come from actually trapping him and it’s not like he wants to force anything on him either. He just wants the truth. For once, he could not allow Romano to lie his way through this.

The silence unnerves Romano and he does what he always does when he’s nervous. He starts talking, his breath coming is short bursts, eyes darting everywhere but at Greece.

“I meant it. I did! Don’t come back. Don’t invest in me. You know. As much as everyone else. _More_ than anyone else. There’s so many reasons. Why you shouldn’t be _here_. You _shouldn_ _’t_ be here! You shouldn’t have—” he chokes. “Come back.”

“But I did.”

Something that’s both a snort and a sob escapes past Romano’s lips. He’s trembling, from restraining tears or anger or simple panic or maybe all three, and he hugs himself tightly, finally settling his gaze somewhere on the tiles. “Please.”

Greece wants to reach out, wants to touch Romano, wants to hug him, press him close and make it all good, but he knows that he’ll just curl in more, retreat and never speak to him again if he does. So he kneels, searches for Romano’s gaze from a lower vantage point, and tries to exude something calm and kind.

“Romano,” he starts, “the truth.”

Romano laughs bitterly, aggressively rubbing at his eyes. “The truth,” he repeats, and it almost sounds spiteful. His eyes meet Greece’s and he glares. “I _told_ you the truth.”

“No, you didn’t. You’re a good liar, I’ll give you that, but I’ve known you since you were just a kid with a bow and an ego. You don’t fool me, Lovino.”

Romano goes rigid at the mention of his human name. His breathing evens out as his panic filters out and pure fury takes its place. He unwinds, standing straight as his eyes flash gold, unwavering and frankly frigid. “You,” he breathes, his voice clipped and dangerous, “are walking a thin line.”

It’s a promise of a fight, but it’s on shaky foundation. Greece stands slowly, scratching his chin a little absently.

“Not particularly,” he says carefully. “I think it’s perfectly fair for me to ask you to be honest.”

It's all that's needed to deflate Romano: a call on his bluff. He opens his mouth, but then he wheezes and once more curls in on himself, scratches at his arms.

“All right,” Greece sighs and gently grasps Romano’s elbow. “I'm leading you to the living room and you're going to sit down and _breathe_.”

Romano whimpers, but allows himself to be steered to the couch, dropping down and burying his face in his hands with another sob.

Greece stands in front of him, indecisive. There is very little he can do when Romano is like this, especially because their relationship is in some sort of state of liminality at the moment.

“I'll finish your dinner,” he says and gently runs a hand through Romano’s hair.

There's a mutter that Greece doesn't feel like unpacking, so he leaves to the kitchen. Turning the stove back on, he first saves the mussels from overcooking before he continues baking fish and shrimp. He finds the couscous in the fridge, prepared earlier, and he adds it to the pan. Really there isn't a lot to do, but it should give Romano enough time to regain some of his composure.

Greece blinks when there’s a brush of fur against his ankles and he smiles, reaching down to pet the cat that has found its way into the kitchen. It's a stray, its fur a rich brown with the occasional white spot. Romano wouldn't appreciate it at all, but it's not like Greece can stop them.

“There had better not be cat hairs in my food.”

Greece turns, finding Romano leaning against the kitchen entryway. He has stopped crying, but his eyes are still red. He sniffles and rubs his nose, turning his eyes downward when Greece meets his for too long.

“I can bring it outside,” Greece offers, but Romano shakes his head.

Kneeling, Romano lures the cat to him with small noises. It brushes by his hand with a mewl and he picks it up. As he brushes his fingers through its fur, he looks a little sheepish.

“Honestly, the day cats stop appearing near you is the day the world will end,” Romano muses, his voice rough. He clears it and glances back down at the cat, clearly unsure of what to do about Greece in his kitchen.

Greece hums, leaning back against the counter. Romano is talking normally again which is good, but that doesn't mean anything has been solved. All it means is that he's lost his momentum for now.

As Romano continues to shower the cat in attention, Greece returns to the dinner. He adds the mussels to give it all one last stir through, lowers the fire and searches around the cabinets for plates. Greece doesn't bother much with presentation, not the way Romano likes to fuss over it, and places the plates on the dinner table with a clink.

Romano has dropped the cat outside the door and closes it with a sigh. He washes his hands, rubs his arms and then sits down opposite of Greece.

They eat silently, Romano keeping his eyes down the entire time while Greece’s attention is elsewhere.

It's when they've sat in silence for over an hour, dinner finished but neither bothering to stand and clean, Romano playing with one of the mussel shells, that Greece sees it fit to resume their talk.

“Romano,” he starts, wincing as Romano drops the mussel. “You didn't think we were done, did you?”

Romano sighs. “No.” There's a defeated slump to his shoulder as he stares at the grain in the table. “No, I did not think so. I give you more credit than that.”

“I'm surprised.” He's tempted to grab a bottle of wine from the fridge, but this is really a conversation to be had sober. So he shifts in his chair, moves his plate aside and leans on the table, blinking slowly at Romano in anticipation.

“I'm sorry,” Romano says, eyes flickering up to show he's sincere. He breathes deeply, fingers digging in his arm as he forces out his next words. “And you were right. I did lie. I lied because I don't know how to not lie anymore. All I ever do is lie, Greece. I'm not—you don't deserve someone like that.”

“You don't get to decide that, I think,” Greece says after a pause. “But it's something we'd have to work on.”

“We.” Romano’s voice is struggling to hold the contempt. “Greece—”

“Whether we move forward or not, it's still something I want to help you with.” Greece reaches forward, laying his hand on the table with his palm open. An invitation.

Romano looks at it, eyes hooded. There used to be a time when Greece could read Romano always. But that time ended with the collapse of the Roman Empire. Now it is a dangerous game that Greece cannot seem to quit no matter how hard he tries. He will always gravitate back to the same old addiction.

Carefully, shakily, Romano reaches out his hand, lets it slide across the table. He touches Greece’s fingers, rediscovers the tendons before he finally settles it on top.

“I don't understand you,” Romano mutters, shoving his plate aside. He lies his head down on the table, cheek against the hardwood, staring at their hands with a sad expression. “No one ever comes back.”

Greece shifts his hand and curls his fingers. He rubs his thumb across the skin of Romano’s wrist.

“As we’ve established before, I did.”

“Which was a mistake.”

“No,” Greece says slowly, thoughtfully. “I think it would’ve been a mistake to stay away.”

Romano sighs and closes his eyes. They bask in comfortable silence for a while. Greece takes the time to observe Romano, his face, the slope of his nose, his long lashes against his freckled cheeks. His hair is as temptingly curly as ever, glinting gold in the few slants of light still falling into the kitchen.

“I love you,” he says.

Blinking his eyes open, Romano looks at him. He shifts, sits up, runs his free hand through his hair nervously before dropping it to the table. He doesn’t let go of Greece’s hand, though a spasm goes through his fingers.

“So you’ve said.”

“I’ll say it again.”

“Don’t,” Romano breathes. “God, Greece, it’s not… healthy.”

“For me to be in love with you?”

A noise escapes Romano’s throat, not quite a whine, but not quite anything else either. “I can’t be with you.”

“That’s okay. I’m not asking you to be.”

Romano rips his hand from Greece’s and stands. His body is tout with nervous energy as he stalks back and forth. He fists his hair, tugging harshly before dropping it all and turning to Greece, lost.

“How? How is it okay?” His voice is tight and he blinks rapidly as if to quell the tears.

The chair creeks as Greece stands, slowly but confidently. He walks forward carefully, holds out a hand as if he’s approaching another stray cat, watches Romano’s eyes flicker to it. They hold so much; uncertainty, hesitation, pain, longing—

He reaches Romano, runs his hand up his arm, past his shoulder, neck, comes to rest on his cheek. Romano breathes shakily, closes his eyes briefly before they flutter open again, glimmering a muted gold as he leans into the touch.

Greece smiles, leans closer, refrains from pressing a kiss against Romano’s forehead. “Because I love you,” he says softly, weighing the statement down with all his feelings. He moves his thumb across the soft skin, brushes away the tears with a soft sigh.

Romano’s hands comes to rest on his waist as he drops his head to Greece’s shoulder, another sob tearing itself from his throat. He’s shaking—trembling—again and Greece wraps his arms around him, holds him gently, caresses his hair and rubs circles on his back. Tilting his head so his lips brush against Romano’s temple in not quite a kiss, he whispers words in a language long forgotten.

_“I’ll always come back for you.”_

**Author's Note:**

> This became so much more angsty than initially intended, but ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> Reasons ambiguous because that seems to be a theme this event for me, though I had envisioned this with aromantic Romano in mind.
> 
> Comments appreciated :D


End file.
